When The Sugar Spins
by laddertoheaven
Summary: In the midst of winter holidays, widening waistlines become a concern and anxiety runs rampant for more than one person. Kyle groans, Stan disagrees. Meanwhile, Randy makes good on his habit of showing up unannounced. (Written for xnowherex & South Park Secret Santa at LJ. Warning for strong language, sexual content, discussions of mental health. Also it's super fluffy in places.)


Looming behind me is the largest monster I've ever come across. It's got prickly fur and it hasn't consumed me yet, but I can feel its rank breath rushing down my back like hot wind, or water, or something else equally scalding. My shoulder plays host to its claws and they start to dig in, gripping me in place. It leans in low and gets acquainted with my ear, whispering ever so gently: _Sixty calories._

A grocery store aisle has never felt so threatening; neither has a box of Hot Pockets. I'm thinking I might go with the package of Christmas doughnuts I lingered over at the front. The cashier had been inspecting me while popping what was probably sugarless gum, scanning a bag of popcorn after bagging Funyuns for a teenage boy. I say it might have been sugarless — I have never seen anyone look that sour while chewing gum. Or maybe she saw the juice stain on my sweater and started mentally profiling me. Even now, I'm running the facts through my head to myself. _Red-haired male of average height, mid-30s, slightly hooked nose. Likes patterned socks, hates cake and Jenny Craig. Once consumed half a hit of acid at age 8. Therapist on vacation in Peru._

The monster, which is actually just my pissant conscience, has uttered "60 calories" in recognition of one of several differences between a box of doughnuts and greasy cheese in fried dough. I stroll away from the frozen food section, turning to the breakfast aisle. I'm no longer set on Hot Pockets. Cereal varieties govern cream-colored metal shelves, each brand seeming better than the last. Eventually I settle on a box of Special K Chocolatey Delight, recalling preachy commercials insisting on the health benefits of cocoa. I stick it in the basket on my arm, next to a package of frozen chicken-fried steaks. Next on the list is milk. I've penciled in "2 percent" next to it because Stan never remembers. I'm checking the bottom of the carton for leaks when the loudspeaker cuts on, mercifully interrupting Merle Haggard.

"_This holiday season, why don't you register for 'Just for U' coupons? Buy your Christmas dinner at a fraction of the cost. Come back every week for new savings, only at Safeway_!"

I take that as my cue to leave. I end up with the sour-looking cashier from earlier. As I swipe my Visa, I notice fading blue dye in her hair. I button my coat and crinkle the receipt in my pocket, bags in my gloved hands. Outside, a man in a Santa suit holds a Salvation Army bucket. His ringing bell gives me a headache. I know he's doing it on purpose.

"Can you maybe do that less enthusiastically?"

"Not my fault you hate Christmas so much, Kyle." I'm not sure why Cartman decides to moonlight for the Salvation Army every year, although I suspect that it has something to do with their shared vehemence toward gays. He knows I shop at this store; he knows how much I fucking hate Christmas. After all these years, he still makes an effort to piss me off enough that I come ever closer to busting a milk jug over his head.

Tonight, I'm too tired for homophobia, let alone milk jugs. "Good night, Cartman." I cross the parking lot and ignore his screeching reply, something about the fires of hell and laying off the pie. I set the bags down in the passenger seat of the Prius before buckling in, my fingers going slightly rigid in the cold air. The belt slides against my stomach, which forms a noticeable swell over my jeans. The only thing that keeps me from wailing in my seat is remembering that I am not, nor have I ever been, Cartman-sized.

My cell phone alerts me to a text from Stan. I ignore it; I'll be home soon enough.

* * *

"Now that," Stan begins when I walk in the apartment door, "is the funniest shit I've ever seen."

It takes me a moment to realize he's on the Xbox, playing some weird violent game that, for some reason, has a Christmas theme. Onscreen, Stan runs around as a homicidal costumed elf who has managed to set a nativity float aflame. The entire crèche is engulfed, a plastic Mary flung into the screaming crowd. A chunk lands on a small child.

"Oh, hey," Stan says, not looking at me. "Did you get my text? Gimme a second, this level's almost finished up."

I utter a quick "yeah" as the elf flies away on a mechanical reindeer, leaving the burning wreckage. The cutscene lasts a couple more minutes before he pauses, getting up to plant a kiss on my nose while taking the bags.

"Aw, sweet, you got the steaks. I think we have gravy in the cabinet." He goes into the kitchen. I glance down at my stomach, silently deciding that I will not have gravy on my chicken-fried steak. I follow him, retrieving a bag of green beans from the freezer and setting it on the counter.

Stan's put the cereal up and now he's petting the dog, who looks at me with icy blue eyes. I return her gaze. She's a warm-hearted husky, always cuddling with us in the mornings. Stan named her Maple because he's not very creative; he found her tied to a maple tree one morning, on the way home from work. He's a gym teacher at Thomas Jefferson High, earning less than what I make as a software developer, a job I took when I was young and thought anything involving computers would actually be exciting.

I sometimes pilfer Stan's energy bars when he's not home. Maple never tattles.

Right now she's trotting up to me, panting. I sit on the kitchen floor, scratching behind her ears the way she likes, leaning against the bottom cupboards so Stan can maneuver throughout. I don't say anything until he's at the sink, near me.

"So I was thinking."

"_A dangerous pastime_," he half-sings. I pet Maple's auburn fur while groaning, lightly slapping his leg. I hate it when he quotes Disney movies.

"I was _thinking_," I repeat, "that we could do something fun next week, since I've got a few days off."

"Mm." Stan tears open the package of green beans, dumping them in a colander. He switches the faucet on before setting a large pot of water to a low boil, a box of cheesy pasta sitting near the counter's edge.

"That Blossoms of Light thing, that's happening. In the Botanic Gardens."

"Mm-hm." Stan grabs a pot from beneath the sink. Maple's back in her bed in the living room, barking at a Taco Bell commercial. He tells her to hush before turning back to me.

"So?" I say. "You wanna try to go?"

He shrugs. "Maybe. It sounds pretty romantic." He tips the pasta over into the bigger pot, stirring the noodles around. "Like an anniversary thing. What'd we even do for our last anniversary?"

My mouth quirks to the side. "We went to Pennsylvania, remember? Hershey Park." I fold my hands over my stomach. "You got the salt and pepper set for your mom."

"Oh, yeah." He grins.

"But that was two years ago. We didn't go anywhere last year."

"Why was that?"

"You didn't want to."

Stan's stirring wavers to a pause, his grin slacking. He lets out another, quieter "oh," then walks over to the fridge, grabbing a water bottle before heading to the bathroom. I hear him fiddling in the medicine cabinet as I stand up to stir the shells, the smell of fried chicken wafting from the oven. Soon, he comes back.

"Run with me to Rite Aid tomorrow," he says. "I need a refill."

"Why do you need me to go with you?"

"I don't know. I kinda like having you around. Also, I'm avoiding my dad."

I turn my head to face him. Stan's leaning in the archway, staring at the kitchen floor.

"Why are you avoiding your dad?"

"He's been wanting to hang out," he sighs. "He puts my nerves on edge these days, I don't know. Mom can't stand him either. She says he's going through a late-onset mid-life crisis."

I raise an eyebrow. "He's 58."

"Hence 'late-onset.' And he will never let you tell him that. Here, I'll stir — can you make sure Maple's got enough food?"

I check the dog bowl and pour in more Blue Buffalo. I don't want to see Randy any more than Stan does, but a part of me feels bad for the guy. He's probably lonely.

Later, we decide to eat dinner in the living room. We settle on watching some comedy movie that's come out recently. I don't really pay attention, but Stan's fully engrossed. I only laugh when he laughs. He's midway through his dinner when I finish.

"Chicken was kinda dry," I remark.

"Should've put gravy on it." Stan swirls his gravy around with his fork, stabbing a piece of steak and shoveling it in his mouth. I mimic him out of irritation. He throws a green bean at me.

He curls up behind me when we go to bed, arms flung around my waist. I shift against him, noticing a hard dick bumping against my back. I reach behind to take care of it and he comes five minutes later, moaning against my neck, heated breath turning me on somewhat. I'm too tired to jerk off, so I kiss him. We remain that way for a while, lips sliding lazily against each other's. It's reminiscent of when we were younger, fumbling around in the dark of our dorm rooms.

Fully sated, Stan falls asleep. I hate the feeling of jizz on my skin, so I go to the bathroom to scrub it off the back of my upper thigh. I set my foot on the closed toilet seat so I can get it all. My thigh shivers once I put my leg back down.

Stan hates it when I do this, but fuck him; he's out cold and I want to wallow for a minute. I step back, turning several times in the mirror. My hips are slightly wider than they were two years ago; my stomach is a small pouch. My chest is soft. I hug myself, wondering why I chose tonight to wears shorts and a T-shirt when the temperature is so low outside. I remember Stan, curled up in bed, body heat radiating all throughout the blankets. Running a hand through wild hair, I exhale softly and pull on my lower eyelid, making a face at myself.

After one more turn, I shut off the bathroom light and crawl back into bed, relaxing into my spot. Stan's steady breathing lulls me to a dazed state, and it isn't long before I'm careening into dreamland myself. I dream of hazy things, fat monsters, scared dogs, Santa Clauses with long green bean teeth. None of it frightens me. I burst out laughing when a Hot Pocket shows up and starts to dance. The laughter echoes wherever I'm suspended. Soon I stop, a vast sense of isolation washing over me.

Sometime around dawn, I awaken to feel the familiar rustle of Maple as she hops on the mattress, settling beside me. I quickly make a mental note to stop drinking rum and Cokes before bed. Glancing at the clock, I turn to see if Stan's still asleep, but side is empty. I feel the sheets; they're cold to the touch. I hear the familiar sounds of _I Love Lucy_, which runs in the morning. Rather than check on him, I allow myself to go back to sleep.

* * *

Rite Aid is pleasantly empty for the most part. We arrive sometime in the afternoon, a little after Stan rouses from the couch. He'd woken up in the middle of the night and wandered out to the living room, unable to fall back asleep. It's nothing new, but I still worry over it.

We're there for 30 minutes while Stan gets his meds refilled. I peruse a row of juice bottles, selecting a peach-flavored Snapple as he wanders back toward me.

"I'm ready," he says, rubbing a hand against week-old stubble. I pay for my juice at the counter and we walk hand-in-hand back to the car. When we were younger, public displays of affection often put me off my lunch, mostly out of fear. These days, it's second nature. He snags the car keys from my pocket, beating me to the driver's side. He's regarded as "old as balls" by his students but around me, he still treats most things like a silly race, exhibiting half the gusto of a 20-year-old. I take a moment to appreciate that Stan is, essentially, a watered-down version of his father.

"Do you wanna make sugar cookies tonight? I've got red and green sprinkles to put on them," Stan asks now, switching on the radio. He immediately changes the station when a few bars of "Jingle Bell Rock" start to play. I bristle, annoyed.

"Um."

"I mean, I know you hate Christmas," he adds hastily, "but you also love cookies. And I thought maybe your love for cookies might cancel out all that animosity. You know?"

"I guess we could. But I don't know that I'll eat any."

Stan's brow furrows. _Here we go_. "What? Why not?"

I don't meet his eye. "I'm trying to cut down on sweets."

He doesn't respond, but I know he's unhappy. He hates it when I stare at myself in the mirror for too long, and he hates my inconsistent half-assed dieting. It's enough to make me want to punch him in the face sometimes.

But I guess it's fair. He doesn't always get why I act like this, just like I still try to cope with his occasional panic attacks and general unwillingness to socialize, on top of him agonizing over anything as simple as getting the mail. Granted, I don't like people very much myself — but Stan is different. Somedays, he's okay. When he's calm, or medicated, he can work. He'll even talk to colleagues. Even then, he harbors a fear of crowds, or parties. He still hasn't given me a straight answer about going to Blossoms of Light, but it might've been silly as hell to assume that me being there would make a difference.

But it sometimes does. During his darker periods, it takes awhile, but he eventually lets me in. He'll allow me to take his hand, stroke his back, to soothe him as he rides through.

Right now, I just want to yell. But there's no real reason to, so instead I land on a compromise. "I'll let you feed me a cookie."

He doesn't quite perk up, but the deepness of his frown lets up noticeably.

"You're gonna look so cute with crumbs on your mouth," he jokes after a while, reaching over to pinch my cheek. I make like I'm going to bite his fingers and he withdraws, laughing softly. It leaves a pleasant warmth in my heart, a sensation so sappy that I'd never verbally admit to it.

* * *

"If we had a Christmas party, who would you invite?"

I peer down from a computer catalogue, my fingers faltering in Stan's hair. His head rests on my thigh and his legs are hanging over the bed. I stare at him, wondering if I was asleep and was falling victim to another strange dream.

"You hate parties, Stan."

"I know. That's not the point, though. I'm just wondering — if we did, who would you invite?"

I think for a second. "Not Cartman."

He snorts. "I know _that_. But who _would_ you invite?"

I heave a sigh and lean back against the headboard, blinking as I go through possibilities. "Wendy," I finally say. "Token. Maybe Craig. Some of your friends from work, some of mine. Also, Kenny. Where is he this year?"

"Visiting his sister in Iowa. He emailed me yesterday, a card's in the mail."

"What the fuck is Karen doing in Iowa? Who even _exists_ in Iowa?"

Stan shrugs. "I dunno. People. Farmers. She lives in a trailer park with her mechanic husband. Makes cat figurines and sells 'em at flea markets."

"Well. That's a bright future."

"Maybe. Wait, why are we meddling in her life? Since when were we _that_ couple?"

I put the catalogue down. "What are you talking about, Stan?"

"I mean," Stan says, "I mean, we get so judge-y sometimes, Kyle. Like our lives are so much better. I'm teaching kids how to spike volleyballs for a living and we still rent. There's barely enough room for Maple's toys." At the foot of the bed, Maple lifts her head up at Stan. She yawns, untroubled. I often wish I could be her.

"It's a habit," I rationalize. "We've been judging people since we were kids. Even when we preached against judging, we judged. I guess I've accepted it sooner than you have."

Stan grows rigid, then eases himself up from under my hand. I gape at him as he sits up next to me, putting a fair distance between our shoulders. Growing pissed, I flip the catalogue to page thirty. I'd rather gawk at microchips and hardware than that stupid, scruffy face.

"I'm not _that_ judgmental," Stan asserts after a long silence.

"You're not _that_ judgmental," I echo, "but you _are_ judgmental."

"I try not to be," he mutters. His grumpy, defenseless tone exasperates me, which I try not to let on. "Everyone tries not to be, Stan," I huff. "It's not just you. That doesn't make you a bad person, it makes you like everyone else. That's not always a bad thing."

Stan says nothing for a long time. I'm scanning the prices of external hard drives when he pipes up.

"You wanna make the cookies now?"

I stare at the catalogue. I don't want to say yes, but I truthfully have no interest in any type of _hard drive at the moment_. I briefly catch a glimpse of the evening sky outside, through the window. "Yeah." I put the catalogue on the nightstand and slide my legs over the bed, my toes dragging a little on the soft carpet. He's already headed to the kitchen. The dog observes me.

"Your daddies are assholes," I tell her, leaning over to stroke her scruff. She regards me woefully, unblinking. I leave her to join Stan in the kitchen, where he's taking out most of the ingredients and measuring cups. He sets a large bowl near the toaster. He reads directions on a printout to himself, mouth and eyes moving fast. He's cooked plenty of times, with success, but he's only ever baked once: an attempted homemade pizza, which had involved a faulty timer and a sudden excursion to the bedroom when Stan commented on how good he thought my ass looked that day. He had been coming for the second time when I smelled the smoke and realized we'd been fucking a little longer than I thought. It ended with us getting the entire oven replaced and we've stuck to ordering out since then.

I walk over to him and lift the bag of flour, its contents pure white and powdery like snow. "Do we have eggs?" I ask him. He's not paying attention to me. "Never mind, I'll check." I open the fridge up, dragging the egg carton out from behind a container of leftovers. "How many do we need?"

"Um — one. Large." I put the egg down on the counter. Next to the bowl is a small bottle of vanilla extract, a container of Morton salt, three sticks of butter, and sugar. He's forgotten the mixer, so I reach up to the topmost cabinet and slide it out from next to the ceramic tea set. We've never used that thing, but I know better than to turn any kind of gift down from my mother.

"Do we really need that much butter?"

"It's what the recipe calls for," Stan replies, finally tearing his eyes away from the paper. He sets it down and grabs the sugar and butter, dumping them in the bowl. He plugs in the mixer and turns it on, beating until the sugar and butter blend, smooth and fluffy. Admittedly, it looks good. I crack the egg and he pours the vanilla extract, beating that in as well.

I start measuring flour out in the 16-ounce cup, stopping at what I think is one half. "We'll need three more," he says, dumping the first into the bowl after I'm done. Some of the powder ends up on our clothes. I accidentally knock over the bag at one point. By the time we get the fourth cup in, my shirt looks like it belongs to Charlie Sheen and there's flour on my hands and wrists. Stan scratches his nose, leaving a white, smudged fingerprint.

"Did you never learn to read measuring cups?" he asks me. "You keep putting too much in, Kyle. Jesus." I stick my tongue out at him.

"It's hard to read those little lines. Sue me."

"Get yourself some bifocals. Here, gimme the salt." I hand it to him, but not before pouring a pinch in my hand and throwing it in his hair. He shoves me and measures out two teaspoons in with the flour, flipping the mixer switch. Before I can tell him he's put it on too high, I get hit in the face with a chunk of dough. We're being sprayed with the ingredients as Stan jumps back in shock.

"Shit, shit, turn it off!" I cry, flailing. Stan quickly unplugs the thing and sets it on the counter, backing away slowly, as though the lifeless mixer were some dangerous animal. We look at each other and, despite ourselves, burst into laughter.

"I think," Stan snickers, "I think I put it on too high."

"You _think_? Oh, wow." I view my front. "I was the poster boy for coke addiction a second ago, but now I'm not sure."

"C'mere, poster boy," Stan says, grinning. "You've got dough on you." He reaches for me, pulling me close. His tongue flicks out on my nose and I sputter loudly, much to his amusement. "Yeah?" I shoot back. "Well you've got something right _here_." I swipe my tongue on his cheek in a gross, exaggerated fashion. He's gripping my hips, near to collapsing in a fit of giggles. I reach up and wipe away the flour on his nose with my sleeve. Stan catches my eye and our laughter starts to subside. The ingredients sit on the counter, forgotten, as he strokes my cheek.

"I won't feed you if you don't want me to," he murmurs.

"Don't," I say. "It's not a big deal. I'm — you know how I am."

"I love you how you are," Stan reminds me, needlessly. "I'll tell you that until we're old and gray."

"_I'll_ be gray," I correct. "You'll be trolling the stores for hair dye every other month. Even though that exact color isn't gifted to just anyone." I reach up to brush the salt from his head, my thumbs catching near his bangs. He takes my wrists and gently pulls them down, my fingers resting on his collarbones. I'm reminded of our senior prom, where we both came without dates and ended up slow-dancing outside the hotel by ourselves. We'd come outside because we were disgusted by everyone's starry-eyed waltzing, yet that's pretty much how we ended up. I don't know how we didn't kiss that night. We never kissed until our second year of college, when he came from Pennsylvania to visit me and ended up transferring to Denver in the spring. From then on, I always joked I had a magic mouth.

And now Stan's kissing that mouth, pressing against me. My eyes flutter to a close, my hands curling around his neck. He's got a hold on my body, his touch wandering all over my waist and chest. The cookies are put out of sight and mind as he pushes me into the living room. His kisses are becoming frantic, landing anywhere on my lips, my neck. I'm not sure where this sudden fervor's come from, but I don't want it to leave. A rushing, swooping hotness is enveloping my insides. He grabs my thigh as we land on the couch and he's got his knee in between my legs, my erection beginning to tent my wrinkled pants.

"Take it out," I whisper, because I don't trust my shaking hands enough to do it myself. Stan obliges, sliding his fingers around my cock the instant it's free.

"How do you want it?" he breathes, his lips dragging on mine. My chest heaves, my lungs expanding furiously. I kiss his ear.

"You."

My shirt's almost off and he's moving for his belt buckle when there's a knock on the door. Jehovah's Witnesses sometimes pop by here, especially during the holidays, so we ignore it.

The knocking increases in speed. It's not until Stan's mouth is on my dick that I hear Randy Marsh's voice through the door, asking for his son.

Stan falls off the couch in surprise. I hasten to sit up, stuffing myself back into my pants. "What the fuck?" I half-whisper. Stan shakes his head, throwing his hands up. His confusion just angers me further. I want to wrench the door open, just so I can shout abuse. Instead, Stan answers the door, putting himself together as best as possible.

I straighten my shirt, smoothing my hair down. I'm still a mess; glimpsing my reflection in the TV screen, I see my lips are kiss-swollen and my neck is covered in red marks. A saliva trail reveals itself near my collar. I wipe it away quickly, embarrassed.

"Hey, Dad."

Randy stands in the doorway, nodding. He's invited in. I scoot over on the couch to make room for him, crossing my legs tightly. I'm softening, but not quick enough. An upturned book lies on the coffee table and I pick it up, acting as though I were in the middle of reading. I glance down at myself to see I've still got bits of cookie dough on me.

"So, uh," Randy begins, clearing his throat. "You guys busy?"

Stan shakes his head. "No. Nope." He rests his hands on his hips. "We were just making cookies."

"Really?" Randy turns to me. "Looks like Kyle's reading." Stan swallows nervously and I step in to save him.

"We _were_ making cookies," I say, "but Stan decided he wanted to do it himself. To make up for that time with the pizza." Stan had never recounted that to his father, but I'd told Sharon and I didn't doubt that Sharon told Randy. My assumption is confirmed once Randy nods his head, beginning to smile.

"Right," he laughs. "Well, he doesn't get that from me. Probably from his mother. She's decent, but, you know, she never got to cook with _Gordon Ramsay_." He laughs harder and I join in, Stan soon after. The merriment is forced; I'm mostly thinking of how unfortunate it is that after all these years, Randy still doesn't realize that Gordon Ramsay was just Cartman on stilts.

"So, I was thinking, Stan," Randy chortles, wiping his eye. "If you're not, you know, really busy or anything, we could maybe hang out? I haven't been bowling in a while, I sure could use a bowling buddy."

We both know what this is. Randy isn't looking for a bowling buddy; he wants attention and company, because he's a grating mess without it. I give him a once-over, complying with my judgmental nature. Randy's beard is speckled with gray, as is his messy hair. His coat needs ironing and his pants are stained with what's probably paint. I remember Sharon mentioning that Randy took to repairing things that didn't need it around the house once Stan went to college. I guess he hasn't stopped.

"What d'you say, Stan?"

Stan looks like he wants to crawl out of his skin and scamper away. I hold the book in place, watching him carefully.

_Please say no. Say no. Dear Jesus, God, Buddha, Cthulu, say no —_

"Yeah, I guess so."

_Motherfucker_.

"Wait, but — no, Dad, I actually — I can't." He gulps noiselessly. "I really — I want to finish — the cookies, you know…"

It's a pathetic excuse, but at the same time it isn't. It's asking a lot of Stan to go out on a whim. He usually needs time to dwell on the thought of just getting the mail. Randy looks crestfallen, his face slacking where a smile used to be. I'm torn between feeling bad for both men. When the silence gets to be too much, I speak up.

"I'll go," I offer. "I'll go bowling with you, Randy."

Randy immediately turns to me, brightening, a sign he's desperate for anyone to be around at this point. He normally doesn't regard me as the hanging-out type. "Really?" he asks. "You really want to?" He's like an overexcited 5-year old, even bouncing on the couch a little.

I swallow nervously. "I — yeah, I do. Just — go downstairs and wait for me, I'll be there in a minute."

"Wow, thanks, hey. That's great of you, Kyle. Thanks." He hops up from the couch and heads to the door, but doesn't leave until he hugs Stan, who merely rests a hand on his father's back. "Call me sometime, Stan," he says, disappointment in his voice. He leaves the apartment and Stan rounds on me.

"Why'd you say that?"

"Because this way, he'll leave us alone for at least a few weeks," I snap, heading to the bedroom to get dressed. "Why are you pissed?"

Stan opens his mouth, then shuts it. He follows me. "I'm not _pissed_. I'm just annoyed. You never hang out with my dad. Like, ever."

"First time for everything." I throw my pajama pants on the floor and slip dark jeans over my legs. Stan sits on the side of bed. I take off my powder-stained sweater, tugging on a gray T-shirt.

"It's cold out there," Stan says, matter-of-factly. I roll my eyes, thankful he can't see my face. "That's why they invented thicker jackets," I intone, looking for socks. "Even though they make me look fat as shit."

"You're not —" he stops himself, biting his lip. I look over my shoulder at him and he tears his gaze away, eyes narrowing. I stand up straight.

"Well," I say quietly, "I'm not skinny. I never have been. And the sooner you realize that, the fewer arguments we might have." I slam the drawer shut. Our fighting makes no sense, but that's usually how all our fights are.

"I know that," Stan retorts, hands gripping the edges of the bed. I stare at him, my hands dangling by my sides. All I can think is how through I am.

"I'll see you tonight." I grab my keys from the nightstand, slipping my coat on over my shoulders. It's bulky but it's warm, and I'm pleased that I don't care. "Try to make up your mind about Blossoms of Light while I'm gone."

Stan pinches his mouth shut, then says through gritted teeth that he doesn't want to go. I stare at him, one glove on my hand, the other halfway over my knuckles.

"You didn't even think about it," I say. He stands up and whirls around, clenching his fists.

"It's been nearly two days," he says. "I've thought about it. I don't want to go. There's going to be too many people, and —"

"Goddamn it, Stan!" I exclaim, my blood pressure rising. "I get that you're nervous, I really do, but at least mull it over! It hasn't nearly been two days, I only just asked you last night!"

"Right, and then today happened." He puts his hand on his forehead and sits back down. "Tomorrow makes two days. _I don't want to go_." He rubs his temple. This is the third headache he's had today, but I'm not feeling too sympathetic right now.

I throw my hands up. _So much for trying to do something nice_. "Whatever, dude. Fuck it. Do whatever the fuck you want."

I leave the bedroom and the apartment without another word. Randy's waiting for me near the front door of the building. I catch him rooting through the mailbox's open slot, where the circulars get dropped. I clear my throat to announce my presence and he jumps back, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Everything okay?" he asks. "I thought I heard shouting."

In that moment, I want to spill everything to Randy. I want to tell him how I keep yo-yoing with my appearance, how one day I'm fine and the next day I want to bury myself in the blankets and never come out. I want him to know how Stan's anxiety seems to be getting worse every month, or maybe it's just me, but it's wearing me down and I'm probably a selfish asshole for it. The sleepless nights, the headaches, the irritability — I hate it, and I'm an asshole.

Instead, I lie to him. "It was just next door. They're divorcing. My car or yours?"

* * *

It's not even been an hour and I'm already regretting this, mainly due to Randy kicking my ass royally. As I mark another tally on his side of the chart, I bite back frustration.

Dammit. I was hoping to score _some_ kind of way tonight. That's twice I've been let down.

He lets out a whoop after all his pins go down and walks back over to me. "Wow, Kyle, you're really terrible at this," he chuckles. I get up, grumbling, snagging a red ball from the rack.

"Yeah, well." I take aim, setting my feet. "I'm not a big, uh. Bowling guy." I sound like an idiot so I shut up and take my shot, the ball rolling alongside the gutter. Two pins are knocked down. I purse my lips, knowing this night could probably get much worse; I'm just hoping it won't. I sit next to Randy, who's totaling his score. He does this every time I come back, knowing it agitates me.

"Oh, am I up?" he says smugly, leaving his seat. I sneer at his back as he bends over to take his own ball out of a leather bowling bag. He kisses it. I recoil in minor disgust. "This baby's the best," he assures me, as if I needed it. "Lets me win every time."

It's another strike. I'm not even bothering with keeping score at this point. He dances up and down the alley like a maniac and I hide my head in embarrassment, the rented bowling shoes pinching my toes. Randy retrieves his ball and sits back down, folding his hands behind his head, the ball between his feet.

"So," he says after a minute, "wanna go another round?"

"No — I mean — aw, Jesus, no. No, I don't."

Randy laughs and claps me on the back, which stings horrifically. "It's okay," he says. "Not a problem. I know my skills are pretty amazing."

I don't bother to respond, my head still hidden. Eventually I sit back up, heaving a sigh.

"Thanks," Randy says after a while, "for coming out here with me. I really wanted Stan to go, but…"

I say nothing.

Randy plays with his bowling ball, sliding it to and fro between the insteps of his shoes.

"He knew you wanted to hang out," I blurt, and I have no idea why I'm selling Stan out but I can't seem to stop. "He didn't want to. He was…he's…I mean —"

"I know," Randy interrupts, looking worn. "He's — been that way a long time."

"Yeah."

"It's just, you know. I get a little manic, or whatever. I don't like to be in the house all the time. Sharon's content with being old, but I'm…I still just want to _do_ things. But I like to see my son, too. And I think, 'Well, he doesn't do much. Doesn't go a lot of places. Maybe sometime, he'd like to go someplace with me.' But it doesn't really work. Not all the time."

I listen to him, staring straight ahead at the bowling lanes. Someone two rows down makes a strike. I watch as a small girl jumps excitedly, clapping her sticky hands.

"I want to take him to Blossoms of Light," I say quietly. "Before I left, he — he said he didn't want to go."

Randy looks to me. "Then that _was_ you two fighting, wasn't it?"

I nod reluctantly. "Stan just…he doesn't think things over, he just makes knee-jerk decisions, it seems. All I wanted was something nice to do for the holidays."

Randy raises an eyebrow. "I thought you hated holidays?"

"I hate Christmas. He loves it. I let him indulge every year while I soak myself with brandy in the bedroom." I've no shame left at this point. He might as well be privy to _some_ details.

"Why is that?"

The little girl in the third lane has made another strike. Her family comes over to hug her, someone announcing that they should go out for victory pizza. I scrutinize at their bright, cheerful faces as they exit the bowling alley, returning their shoes at the front.

"It's stupid," I exhale, "but every Christmas, I used to wish that Stan would show up at my front door and just confess his feelings for me. I knew he felt something, but I wanted to hear it straight from him. And every Christmas, it never happened. My family didn't even fucking celebrate Christmas, but I wished for it anyway. I didn't care. I wish I could have just told him myself but I was — I don't know — scared."

"Stan might've felt the same way," Randy points out. I chew my bottom lip.

"I guess. I don't know. I always thought he was braver than me, in some respects. It all just made me bitter, because now every Christmas I just think of how I would sit in my bedroom, alone, wishing yet again for something that wouldn't happen."

Randy shrugs. "I mean, I think he was the same, though," he remarks. "I used to have to go upstairs and drag him down so we could have Christmas dinner. Sharon spoiled him, started bringing his gifts to him instead of having him open them under the tree like the rest of us. But I guess she understood better than me." He frowns deeply, lines grooving around his thin mouth. "Maybe he was depressed, too. I don't know. It took me a long time to understand his — his fears, and stuff. There were plenty of other things I didn't get — I still don't get 'em. He just didn't use to be that way. Or maybe he was, and I just never…you know. Saw it."

I fold my arms, leaning back. This is the most Randy and I have talked, ever, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. It's certainly _different_; cathartic, maybe.

"And you know," Randy suddenly says, fidgeting with his purple bowling shirt, "maybe he'll change his mind about the Blossoms thing. He might've just been mad at you, just got all scared. Sharon's the same way, she gets pissy and either doesn't go anywhere with me or goes somewhere without me. Either way, I end up at the bar with Jimbo and the rest of the sorry old fuckers like me."

I picture myself in 20 years, moping into a glass of bourbon with someone from work, or Wendy, or even — God forbid — Cartman. I'm suffering from male pattern baldness and I'm fatter than ever. Stan's left me for some Brazilian beefcake and eloped to the islands, secluded and secure just like he wants. None of my sweaters fit me anymore. Maple judges me like that dog in those weed commercials, spewing "Above The Influence" crap. Eventually she runs away, tired of my seediness and nasal whining.

Exaggerating is a painful talent of mine, I conclude.

I don't want to end up like Randy. But I'm not sure how I'll end up at all if Stan and I keep going this way. I suppose it's beyond silly that we've been together for so long, yet I still find myself irritated by his quiet, woeful nature. He can be just as nasty and spiteful, but it comes and goes infrequently. It makes me feel as though I'm the only one who ever gets angry anymore.

Yes, I guess that's it — he gives up. Just when I think we're getting someplace, he _gives up_, and I'm not done fighting yet. I'm still waving my fists long after he's already conceded the battle and gone off someplace to lick his goddamn wounds.

It's not fair. _It's not fair_, I want to shout, make myself heard.

I look down at my stomach, a feeling of foolishness rising up, causing heat to bloom in my cheeks. I hold them and prop my elbows on my knees, leaning forward.

_I love you how you are. I'll tell you that until we're old and gray._

I stand up, breathing deeply. "I think I should get back home," I tell Randy. "You know, so I can…"

_Apologize, grovel, admit I'm a dick; the usual_. Randy nods in agreement, standing alongside me. "I'll take the shoes back," he offers. I'm already pushing them off my feet, my socks touching cold tiles. I reach for my own shoes. I've finished doing the laces up on the right foot when Randy returns, tucking a receipt into his jacket. He tosses me my keys. I catch them.

Maybe I scored somehow, after all.

* * *

The apartment is quiet as I enter. Randy's driven back home, probably to kowtow before his own wife. I look to my left and see Stan on the couch, staring off into space. He doesn't acknowledge my presence. I stand there, feeling helpless, then make myself move as far as the kitchen. I peer inside and see, glistening on a square white plate, red and green sugar cookies. I walk in and grab a couple before going back to the couch to sit, perching cautiously on the edge. Maple's asleep in her bed, furry body slowly rising and falling. She looks peaceful, whereas Stan is expressionless, his eyes weary and drooping. A pain settles somewhere in my heart just looking at him.

I sigh, and hand him a cookie. He takes notice and looks at me, confused. I nod, putting it a little closer to his hand.

"Bowling," I announce, "is bullshit."

Stan turns his body to get a good look at me. I don't break my gaze. He finally reaches out and takes the cookie, but doesn't eat it. I'm holding my own, staring at the floor.

"I'm sorry," he mutters. "I know I'm difficult. You must hate me."

I shake my head. "I'd like to punch you sometimes, but no. I don't hate you." I pause. "Do you hate me?"

Stan blinks slowly. "No." His voice is small. "I love you. I love you a whole fucking lot. And I — I know you…have problems sometimes, loving yourself." He looks at me. "I guess that's why we're good together. Since I do too."

"Well, we've practically been soulmates since we were 8 years old."

"Yeah, there's that."

I sit a little closer to him. "Your dad understands you a little better than you might've thought," I gently reveal, our shoulders bumping. "It wasn't so bad, talking with him. It was better than watching him kick my ass with every other strike."

Stan smiles at this. "He's ridiculous at bowling," he says. "I hate playing with him too." We laugh together, cementing this sappy Hallmark moment. I decide to hold my cookie out to him.

"Go ahead," I say. "I said you could."

He searches me, then it clicks and he takes the cookie from me, holding it out to my mouth. I feel like a complete tool as I take a bite. At this point, we deserve our own romantic holiday comedy, complete with frosted windows and happy families caroling outside. All Maple would need is a Santa hat, though she'd probably just gnaw on the red felt.

"Oh God, you're adorable," Stan chuckles. I roll my eyes and chew, shaking my head. "Can't believe this shit," I say, much to his amusement. I finish and he wipes the crumbs from my mouth. We sit there, content for the moment.

"I'm sorry," I finally tell him, "for not understanding you sometimes. It's hard, but we've been together for, like, close to 10 years. We've been friends longer than that. So, yeah. I should maybe know better."

Later in bed, we just lay there, that frenzied urgency from hours ago long gone. The software catalogue is back in my hands, though my eyesight keeps blurring on a single word each time I try to actually read it. Next to me, Stan mumbles something into his pillow.

"What?"

He lifts his head, propping his chin on my shoulder. His arms are by his sides, perfectly still. "I said, I changed my mind. About Blossoms of Light."

"Oh?"

"I think — I want to go."

I keep my gaze on an illustration of a microchip prototype, but inside I'm dancing a jig. I lean over and kiss the top of his head.

"We can, uh," I mumble into his hair, "go on Friday. I'll order tickets tomorrow. We'll leave if you…you know."

"Yeah.

"If you start feeling weird."

He nods and shifts closer to me. I set the catalogue down and shut the lamp off.

The dark of our bedroom is still and calm, save for the snowflakes falling outside. I glance up and over, seeing a thick line of frost on the panes. It's like something out of a holiday painting. Stan's eyes are closed, but I know he knows I'm looking at him.

I reach over and brush a piece of hair to the side, wondering how long we'll get to stay on Friday. Maybe long enough to reach the fountains that light up, blue and bright, multicolored lights and bare trees beside it.

We could probably kiss there, long and sweet. Maybe he wouldn't mind.

And if I was ever sure of anything in life, it's probably that I wouldn't mind either.


End file.
